Breathe
by HousePiglet
Summary: Wilson has asthma. House takes care of him. HouseWilson friendship. Tiny bit of swearing.


**BREATHE**

_**Wilson**_

"For fuck's sake, breathe!" he hears, and Wilson truly wants to, but although he keeps trying it just isn't happening, and the buzzing in his ears grows steadily louder as grey and black speckles appear in his eyes, and begin to swarm noisily around the edges of his vision.

Seconds earlier his eyes had widened in alarm as a leg appeared suddenly on the floor between his own, momentarily distracting his attention from the desperate struggle to take a proper breath, and his nerves had thrilled painfully in shocked surprise. There's something pulling at his side, now, and a sharp pain in his leg, and he jerks his head backwards, panicking, as he feels fingers at his throat, and tries to drag a heavy arm upwards to shove them away.

There's shouting now, too, and Wilson's brain fights desperately to sort the words and feelings into an order that makes some kind of sense, but all his remaining energy is trapped in the frenzied attempt to drag oxygen into his lungs, and somehow no meaning will come. Air won't come either, though, and, as the buzzing increases to a roar, blackness floods the room and Wilson sinks back into himself. He feels himself sliding, and he tries to cry out because he's frightened of the fall, but he can't hang on any longer and as his senses shut down he's aware of a flash of blue as he feels himself collide with something warm and solid, and then he feels nothing at all.

- ----- -

_**House**_

House hadn't realised just how fast he could still move until shortly after he returned to his apartment that evening. He dropped his backpack at the door, and shrugged his jacket off his shoulders and onto the sofa as he headed towards the bathroom, adjusting his iPod on the way. He'd already hitched his shirt and was loosening his belt before he registered the presence of a spilt first-aid kit lying in a flurry of Band Aids and other small items of medical detritus on the floor beneath the bathroom cabinet, but with music surging through his ears it took him a moment to process what he saw. Seconds later, though, he was lunging towards the bedroom, as the pieces came together in his mind.

House found HHWilson sprawled against the bed, slumped to his left with his head and shoulder wedged against the bedside table. The drawer was in his lap, and his hands were in the drawer, but most of the contents had spilled out across the floor beside him, and some of them had rolled away out of his reach. Wilson's face was grey, but his lips had assumed a bluish hue, and his eyes were glazed and unfocussed. His mouth was open, and his shoulders moved slightly in convulsive little jerks, but almost no sound was emerging from his lips.

Wilson had developed asthma not long after his second divorce, and although it struck rarely it came always without warning, and it always hit hard.

"Jesus, Wilson!" House's heart almost stopped, and his stomach lurched as he dived across the room and dropped to the floor, pulling the drawer aside and balancing painfully on his right knee as he leaned forwards to tuck his hands tightly under Wilson's arms, and drag him back up to a sitting position. Wilson's chest was barely moving, and House ran his hands frantically through the mess on the floor round Wilson's legs, searching for the EpiPen that he knew Wilson kept loaded in the drawer. The pen was missing, though, and House's head swam for a moment as an unfamiliar feeling akin to panic surged at the back of his throat.

Seconds later, though, he was reaching for the table to drag himself back to his feet, and moments after that he was fumbling at the bottom of the closet for the small wooden box that now held not only his morphine but also, since the day when House had been paged to the clinic to find Wilson hunched in wide-eyed dishevelment, panting fearfully into a nebuliser, the epinephrine that House had placed there against the chance that this might happen at home.

House grabbed the box and yanked out the pen, and, twisting the top off as he turned, he stumbled back to the bed and slammed the needle hard into the top of Wilson's leg. "Hold on, Jimmy. I've got you," he panted, his voice coming louder than intended, and he felt his fingers shake a little as he pressed them into Wilson's neck to check his pulse. Wilson flinched beneath his touch, and, as he counted, House reached forwards with his other hand and smoothed damp hair up and out of Wilson's eyes.

Wilson could hold on no longer, though, and his eyes began to close as his weight slipped sideways and he slumped towards the ground. House tried to catch him but Wilson was heavy, and his shoulders slipped through House's grasp as he slid to the floor. "Jesus," House gasped again, his mouth dry as he knelt and pressed his ear to Wilson's mouth, staring frantically along his chest for signs of movement. "For fuck's sake, Jimmy! Breathe!" Jimmy wasn't breathing, though, and as House placed a shaking hand over Wilson's forehead and another beneath his neck to tilt his head backwards, and leaned forwards towards Jimmy's face, he wasn't sure that enough breath remained in his own body to do it for him.

- ----- -

_**Wilson**_

Consciousness returned gradually to Wilson, and with it the blessed relief of cool air in his lungs. Something hissed steadily beside him, and as he opened his eyes he was aware of movement above him and a warm hand moving in reassuring circles against his back, and of someone holding a mask against his face. "Easy, Jimmy," he heard. "Just take it slowly." He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, relaxing into safety, and even in his state of hazy half awareness he was almost sure he'd never heard House speak so gently to him before.


End file.
